


Omnia mutantur nos (et mutamur in illis)

by concernedlily



Category: Rome
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:07:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/concernedlily/pseuds/concernedlily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucius sits by the campfire and counts his dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Omnia mutantur nos (et mutamur in illis)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [furius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/furius/gifts).



Lucius sits by the campfire and counts his dead. Only one soldier today that he is ready to swear fell to the ground a corpse, taking him to four on the Gaulish campaign. He makes a careful mark and sets the scrap aside to be stored with his pack. The Thirteenth chatters around him, the men jostling companionably for position and warmth; the ordinary litany of complaints, boasting, and lamentations of the absence of women washes over him. He shuts his eyes and pulls his cloak more firmly around him; it will be dry by morning.

* * *

The Sequani are defeated quickly and the men laugh and drink, telling each other _Armilustrium in Rome next year_.

That night he thinks of Niobe. The child will have come by now, their second; a boy, perhaps. Vorena will be enjoying being a sister. It is difficult to keep time on the battlefield but he thinks the child will be three or four months old by now; long enough to have heard of any problem. He is not so much fool to expect that the whole of Gaul will be subdued so quickly as the men seem to think but he allows himself to entertain the fantasy anyway: returning before his daughter has forgotten his face, Niobe's beauty and the home she is building for them, leaving the army and starting a small business; nothing much, just enough to keep himself and his family, provide a dowry that will ensure Vorena a worthy husband.

The next morning the legion gathers and Caesar rides out to make his address.

Lucius remembers well the first time Caesar spoke to him. He had been new to the army, young and green and stupid. Caesar had come to look over the new ranks: he had surveyed them all from atop his horse, a well-formed bay whose withers stood level with Lucius' head, arrayed in camp gear, a red leather chest plate with the eagle stamp and boots of the same design of Lucius' but far better made. He wore the cassis, red crest standing full and tall. It was the first time Lucius had seen a patrician up close, let alone a general, and fresh from his oath-taking he had felt dearly the sacred obligation of his new status. Caesar had dismounted and walked along the line, speaking quietly to each man in turn, the short slave following him hurrying to keep up and referring often to a bundle of papers. Lucius had stood up straight and proud as Caesar approached: he was of the tribe of Stellatina, after all, and generations of his father's people had fought for Rome.

“Lucius Vorenus,” Caesar had said and Lucius had saluted, slow but perfect, his pack weighing along his back with all the duty of Rome's expectation. He had looked into Caesar's eyes, daring, and Caesar had looked back gravely; said, “Good fortune, soldier,”; and moved to the next man.

They raise their voices, after, _For Rome_ , and Lucius shouts along with them. Perhaps it will not be such a very long campaign after all.

* * *

They push on through Gaul. Vorenus does not entirely understand but he takes comfort that every day, every month, they are forcing the threat of the tribes further from Rome. With his yellow hair and pale skin he has a look of the tribes. Unlike those he fights now, he supposes that his ancestors had the good sense to leave for Rome, rather than await its coming to them.

Vorenus knows that he is not well-liked within the legion – he does not indulge in the drinking, gossiping and cheerful brutality of most of the soldiers. He spends his time at the campfire caring for his uniform, polishing his helmet and weapons to a high, deadly shine, mending his tunics and woollens. The other men use the camp followers, when they are not engaging in the rape of the enemy's women, but he thinks always and only of Niobe; this too sets him apart. Still, he is respected, and he knows how to earn favours (although not ones that are unbegrudged) and after three years he is promoted to Second Spear centurion. There is a new oath, swearing more of his heart to Rome, an audience with Antony, and he hunts a rabbit to lay on the altar of Mars in thanks. He writes of his news to Niobe with fierce pride – he is never sure if his letters arrive – and asks that she sacrifice to the household gods and to his ancestors.

His new position brings him more sullen dislike, tinged with fear that keeps them obedient. His tribute to the temple of war stands at one hundred and forty-three fighting men and he is known as an efficient warrior, a good man to have at your side, a steady hand in a tight spot. His men may not like him, but they fight to stay in his legion.

The army practices often, drills and training, and Vorenus' men more than most. Once Caesar is passing; stops, watches; the men work twice as hard, and Caesar nods at them and rides on.

* * *

They are outside Alesia, building a camp; preparing to lay seige. Vorenus enjoys seiges. They mean time to make a comfortable tent – of course nothing to the pavilion raised for Caesar, but better protected against water, a safe fire-pit outside, a grass-stuffed palette when he can spare the time for collecting and stuffing it, and belongings arranged just so.

One more harsh northern winter and they will be home, say the murmurs. The camp's altars are raised to Jupiter and Mars, as always, but there are more personal altars than usual. A number of the men are praying to Venus, hoping that she will look upon them with favour as the legion that will send her kinsman home safe and victorious, decorated in glory. Vorenus prays as he always has, quietly and often, remembering Niobe and his daughters.

Caesar makes a stirring speech, urging patience, urging their leashed fury and well-trained bloodlust. The legion raises its voice to him after, _For Caesar_.

* * *

“You're on a fool's errand,” the boy says. Freed from his bonds, patrician arrogance is smoothing its way back into his carriage and voice. He speaks as if he understands something that Vorenus cannot. Vorenus looks at him – barely a man, sent into Gaul to deliver a horse, already in the midst of the swirling political currents of the Republic. This is the Rome they will return to, eight years deep in plots, and Vorenus feels a cold unease wrap his belly.

Still, the fool's errand brings him much: he will return to his wife a First Spear, on a horse supplied to him personally by General Julius Caesar. The general looks him in the eye and nods and it is warming, even more than the approbation and cheers of the men as they carry the standard through the gates of the camp; he sees in Caesar the strength of the Republic, and is soothed.

* * *

“It's a river. What river?” Vorenus demands; Pullo's broad, plain face screams guilt. The wagon crosses the Rubicon, taking Lucius Vorenus with it.


End file.
